


In Rut

by AppleJack (AvocadoLove)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Biting, Bonding, Breathplay, Dubious Consent, Healing Sex, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Rape/Non-con References, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvocadoLove/pseuds/AppleJack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like all alphas, Eames goes into rut twice a year.  It's terrifying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please see the tags for warnings. This fic contains explicit dubious-consent and possible **rape** depending on how you see it. 
> 
> There is a line in the fic inspired from [Love Rhymes with Goldflight](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3336198/1/Love_Rhymes_with_Goldflight).
> 
> Many thanks to Gryvon for the beta! :D

The first indication Eames had that he might be going into rut was when he tried to kill Cobb.

He and the other alpha got along usually, and the disagreement had been hardly one at all; a minor point of detail in dreamscape. Only... it had been the look of smug satisfaction on Cobb's face before he showed his back to Eames; that idiotic goatee he'd taken to wearing, the way he habitually chewed his nails and spat them on the floor, the way he talked,  _breathed_ ....

Eames shoved Ariadne aside, sending the young beta sprawling. Reaching Cobb, he spun him around and clocked him in the jaw. Cobb fell stunned to the ground and it was with the greatest satisfaction that Eames put a bullet in his head, ending his miserable life.

Ariadne was still on the ground, looking up at him, eyes wide. That pissed Eames off, too. Someone ought to teach her some manners. Wiping the spray of Cobb's blood off his face, Eames strode towards her.

"Eames!"

He turned to see Arthur standing not ten feet away, gun leveled. Eames heard two shots. The first hit him like a punch to the chest. The second he didn't feel at all.

 

****

 

Eames woke to see Cobb staring at him from across the circle of lawn chairs, a knowing, pitying look in his eyes.

"Oh hell," Eames said.

 

****

 

Eames put as much distance between himself and the team as he could, scurrying out of the warehouse before either Ari or Arthur could fully waken. 

He was two weeks early, though to be fair his twice-a-year cycle had never run like clockwork. Some alphas could set their watches to the hour. His body, like his mind, remained unpredictable. 

He was holed up in his hotel room and checking on a list of countries he could flee to within a twelve hour window that didn't have mandatory castration laws for non-compliant alphas. Bloody Americans and their puritan ideals. If he were caught running amok in rut while in California they'd chop off his balls  _and_ lobotomize him, depending on the amount of damage he'd caused.

Someone knocked on the door, startling him so badly he nearly swept his own laptop off the table. 

"Yes?" he snapped, pacing over to jerk the door open.

It was Arthur. 

The other man gave him a cool look up and down and Eames could only imagine how he presented himself; sweating despite the temperature controlled room, disheveled and flushed. 

"How long do you have?" Arthur asked.

"Long enough to make Canada, if I hurry. Give my regrets to Ari and Cobb." Eames started to swing the door shut, but Arthur stuck a foot in.

Ire flashed though Eames, followed by a low thrum of arousal as Arthur more or less forced his way in. The omega effect. When the worst of the rut hit, Eames would fight to death any other alpha. Betas like Ariadne could go either way. Omegas, he simply wanted to fuck, whether they were accommodating or not.

Eames swallowed hard at that last thought and deliberately stepped back to put distance between himself and Arthur. "It's best if you weren't here now."

If Arthur was concerned, he didn't show it. "How long do you have?" he repeated, stepping fully in the room and closing the door behind him.

"Until I go barking, you mean? Eighteen, twenty hours at best."

Arthur leveled him another considering look, up and down. "And you aren't on the pill."

"No." Eames palms started to sweat. He smoothed them out on the legs of his trousers, hiding the nervous gesture by pretending to be interested in what was out the far window. Conveniently, that kept him a few more feet from Arthur and less likely to want to lock him in here with him, or grab on and not let go. "The side effects rather destroy my creative drive." He glanced back to see Arthur raise an eyebrow. Eames snorted. "Come now, you must have realized something when I didn't fit the 'big and dull alpha' stereotype."

"Cobb gets by just fine—"

"If Cobb told you he's on the pill, he's liar," Eames said flatly. That was the trade off: Take the pill, be in compliance, and live as a thick dullard. Or refuse treatment and become a monster for seventy-two hours, twice a year. 

Judging by the sour expression on Arthur's face, he was probably running dates in his mind of when he couldn't get in touch with Cobb, and coming up with an answer he didn't like.

Finally Arthur said, "We can move up the timeline, make the grab after the mark's 3 o'clock meeting."

Eames couldn't help it. He barked out a laugh, bitter and sad. "Are you mad? Haven't you seen an alpha in full rut?"

"Not personally, but I know what happens, yes," Arthur said.

"Then you know it's not a matter of self-control. What should happen if I see Cobb as my rival, or Ariadne as a convenient hole to fuck?"

Arthur sighed as if Eames was being the daft one. "If we don't move on this within forty-eight hours, months of preparation will be lost. If Cobb stays out of your way and we provide a calm environment—"

Eames didn't know when he had stepped closer to Arthur again, but he suddenly found himself slamming balled fists on the table, making his laptop jump. "Do I look bloody calm to you?"

Arthur, to his credit, didn't flinch. "And an outlet afterward—"

"You don't know what—" he stopped. "Hang on, an outlet?"

Arthur's eyebrow rose in one of those condescending looks he excelled at. Eames' mouth went dry. 

"No," Eames said, shaking his head and backing away. "No, you're mental."

"What was your plan, Eames? Lock yourself in a safehouse cage?"

Yes , Eames didn't say because he couldn't stop  _staring_ at Arthur. He mentally revised his countdown until full rut to sixteen hours.

Arthur stepped forward, confident. "From what I read, having a partner who is an omega is supposed to shorten the cycle."

"Stop—Stop talking about ruts, will you?" Eames turned away, scrubbing a hand down his face. He had only shared a rut with someone one other time, when he was much younger and stupid enough not know better. There were... certain places where omegas and betas paid to be fucked by a rutting alpha. Eames had been lucky not to remember much of it, nor caught any diseases. 

But to be with Arthur, who Eames had flirted with,  _wanted_ , but could never let himself have. He couldn't decide if it was Christmas come early, or his worst nightmare. They did say that judgment was one of the first capacities to be compromised.

The rut wasn't just about sex or longing. If Eames got his hands on Arthur he was going to  _breed_ him. Over and over again, probably until well after Arthur was rung out and wishing stop. It wouldn't matter. Nothing else did during the worst of it. 

Then again, Arthur was an adult and knew what he was offering, though it was beyond Eames why anyone ever would.

It would be nice not to come back to himself alone, just this once.

Eames turned back. "You must promise to take precautions."

Arthur didn't smile, but it looked like he wanted to. "Do you think you'll hold still long enough to put a condom on?"

"Restraints you pillock," Eames snapped, not in the mood for teasing. "For me, not for you."

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. "So we have a deal?"

God save them both. "Yes," he said.

 

****

 

Eames woke the next morning in a foul mood. It was to be expected, really, but it didn't make it any less unpleasant. Every little irritant — his coffee was too hot, the sheets over starched, the bathroom ugly and in need of a remodel — all seemed magnified one hundred fold and itched against nerves that felt open and raw. 

Add persistent horniness to it (something he couldn't relive lest he bring on the full rut sooner) and he was feeling more than a little sorry for himself as he walked into the warehouse.

Then he set his eyes on Cobb who was going over Ariadne's 3D modeling of their dreamscape, and Eames wanted to punch him. Just on principle. Just to feel the crack of cartilage under his knuckles.

Cobb looked up, met Eames' gaze, and slowly, _slowly_ backed away.

The moment Arthur appeared, Eames pulled him to the side. "We need to speed up the timeline. I'm not going to last."

Arthur's eyes narrowed as he lifted his chin. "We can't make the grab any earlier than three."

"You're not listening." He grabbed Arthur's wrist to stop him from walking away and because it seemed a better idea than simply  _shaking_ him like he suddenly wanted. "I know how you hate to improvise, Arthur, but this isn't going to work."

"Let go of me," Arthur said evenly. 

A wholly new thought struck Eames, and his skin flushed hot in anger. "You're doing this for  _him_ , aren't you? You're practically offering yourself up on a sliver platter. Why? So Cobb gets paid for the job? This is to please him, isn't it?"

"I'm going to let that go," Arthur said, though there was steel in his voice as he glared at Eames, "because I know that you're not yourself right now." Then Arthur's eyes shifted to a point over Eames' shoulder. "Cobb, back off. He's not going to do anything."

"You don't know that." Cobb's voice was gentle, like someone calming a horse. The sound of it made Eames grit his teeth. He actually felt the fine bones in Arthur's wrist begin to grind together. 

Arthur grimaced and said flatly, "You're hurting me."

Eames dropped his grip, though he was breathing hard, his nostrils flared. He wanted to touch Arthur again, breathe in the scent of him. Maybe draw some blood — not much, he didn't want to  _injure_ him, but the smell and the taste would be... divine.

He closed his eyes, trying to remind himself that this was just the byproduct of his body pumping in hysterical quantities of hormones. That he usually  _respected_ Cobb as a colleague, and most importantly that he didn't want to hurt Arthur or Ariadne. He had to retain control.

"You okay?" Arthur asked after allowing him a moment.

Eyes still closed, Eames nodded. 

"Go cool off," Arthur told him.

 

****

 

There was no question about going with the team to make the grab. That Eames could barely follow along with what he overheard of the revised plan was another bad sign. His higher functions were shutting down and his capacity for judgment would soon follow suit. Soon enough, he would be incapable of thinking of anything aside from fight or fuck.

Eames buried himself in the furthest corner of the warehouse, stole Ariadne's iPod, and listened to her ridiculously poppy hipster bands on full. He told himself that it helped.

Eventually the team staggered in with their mark, a middle-aged beta named Mr. Green, unconscious between them. 

Forging Green's wife, airhead that she was, was a relief. Down in the dream, surrounded by Arthur's stable mind, Eames could think clearly for the first time in nearly a day. When he was Mrs. Green he  _wasn't_ Eames and therefore wasn't subject to the rut.

The extraction went nearly text-perfect and when Eames came up, the rut hit him like a punch in the stomach.

He felt... powerful. Muscle, sinew and bone all worked together like a well-oiled machine. Eames was in his prime as an adult alpha. More so. The rut dulled any sense of pain he may feel, increased his endurance, pushed trivial concerns like hunger and thirst to the background. 

No one would dare stand before him. He'd kill anyone who tried it.

He could sense there was an omega here. An alpha and two betas, too. They'd have to be dispatched before he could claim the omega, but he could easily do it.

Except that... no. He was here for something else, some other purpose.

Someone touched his chest and Eames' eyes snapped open. The omega—— _Arthur_ — stood over him. "Get up, Eames."

Eames hummed under his breath. He was on his back, but he was the one with all the power. He let a finger trail up the inseam of Arthur's trousers. "You're not going to deny me."

Arthur put his free hand over his as if to stop him, but Eames was stronger, cupped the hardness he found there, and smiled.

"Eames," his voice came out slightly strangled as he glanced over his shoulder, a little helplessly to the others. 

Eames felt himself tense. He'd nearly forgotten. He sat up, removing the cannula with a flick. Removing those annoyances wouldn't take long.

Before he could rise, Arthur swooped in, one long leg arching over to straddle Eames' lap. "Don't look at them. Focus only on me——you told me you didn't want to hurt anyone. Remember?"

He did, but that seemed to be a different person, long ago. Eames felt eyes watching him, the deathly silence in the room as the drama played itself out. But he was a good boy and kept his attention only on Arthur. It was rather easy —— Eames was hard as a steel rod and when he rocked up, he made sure Arthur felt it, too.

He heard Arthur inhale sharply, his eyes growing hooded and heavy. Omegas, and betas to some degree, were not unaffected themselves when an alpha went into rut around them.

"Keep your eyes on me.  _Only_ on me," Arthur repeated, his voice tight as he got up and took Eames by the hand to lead him out of the warehouse.

Eames did.

 

****

 

The car ride over was a blur. Eames knew, in a disassociated way, that he was already fading. He tried to retain control, like a man holding by his fingertips to a ledge, but gravity was pulling him down... down...

 

****

 

The moment the elevator doors were shut, Eames was on Arthur. He hadn't planned it, hadn't considered it, but he found himself pressing Arthur to the far wall, a hand to the back of his neck. Arthur's mouth was slack in surprise, but the taste of him, the feel and scent of him set every nerve alight.

Arthur shifted, small aborted movements as if to get away, his head twisting until the kiss broke and Eames was left to mouth along his neck and the fine cut of his jaw.

"Jesus," he heard Arthur rasp. "At least push the elevator button."

"Which floor?" Eames demanded and turned only briefly to punch it savagely before crowding against Arthur again. He kept one eye on the door. He'd tear anyone limb from limb who tried to take Arthur away from him now.

Arthur laughed softly, one hand sliding up Eames' shirt. "Look at you," he said, his dark eyes full of an emotion Eames was too far gone to read. 

But the soft mockery was enough to bring back some semblance of himself. "Last chance to run, love," he said, pressing close to inhale the scent of him. "I'll be too far gone to stop before long."

"I know," Arthur replied. 

"Arthur," he murmured again, because he liked saying the name, like the way it rolled off his tongue. "I'm going to hurt you. You know that, yeah?" he mouthed under Arthur's jaw, felt him shudder as he rolled his hips against him. "I want to hurt you. I want to—I want to fuck into you, knot you up so hard, love... I want to break you."

"Eames..." It was a low groan, but then Arthur grabbed his chin, looking Eames square in the eye. "It will be all right. You're going to be okay."

Eames knew he wasn't firing on all cylinders, and he wasn't sure how it was possible to feel so powerful... and so frightened at the same time. And how had Arthur known when he could barely admit it to himself?

He  _hated_ the monster he became.

Leaning forward, he kissed Arthur deep and slow, in a way that he had always wanted to do, but soon wouldn't be capable of. An apology of sorts, before what he knew was to come.

_I could love you, you pretentious idiot_ , he thought. _If things were different._

The elevator dinged open.

Afterward, Eames wasn't sure how Arthur got them through the door. Things were becoming a bit fragmented in his mind again — like trying to stumble home after one too many drinks.

He remembered shoving Arthur onto his own bed, crowding over him and ripping his suit vest off — Arthur making some complaint. Eames was so overheated he couldn't remove his shirt quickly enough. 

The soft snick of cold metal around his wrists shocked him, as did Arthur's sudden move; twisting his lithe legs and hips to roll away. Eames made to grab him, but his hands had been secured with a short leash to the metal headboard.

"Arthur!" he snapped, his voice dark and distorted. "Get back here!"

"Relax." Arthur's hand brushed his shoulder and Eames lunged for him, jerking against the headboard. The metal creaked, but held. 

Arthur withdrew, his eyes slightly wide, but that only incensed Eames further. Fury and sex were only different sides of the same coin during rut. 

"What do you think you're doing?" he growled. 

"We discussed restraints, remember?" 

"Come back here right now. I swear to God— Arthur! Where do you think you're going?"

The other man was slowly backing away. "I'm going to take a shower and get ready for you. It won't take long."

"You aren't. You're ready, I'm ready. For Gods sake, Arthur!" But it was no use. Arthur had disappeared around the corner and out of sight. 

Eames yanked on the cuffs sharply, trying to follow, but there was no give. Rage flared up within him, incandescent and he choked off a scream, thrashing, pulling mindlessly like an animal caught in a trap.

It seemed there used to be a time when he could have picked a lock like this, but thought and reason were out of his grasp. He fought the steel, beating closed hands on the headboard, the wall. And the rage, the heat bubbling up in him was only growing brighter until he couldn't stand being in his own skin. With nothing to destroy, he tore at his own clothes. Cool air against his skin brought only scant relief. 

Something caught his attention. Arthur stepping from around the corner again in a drift of steam, hair shower-slick and a towel wrapped around his waist. 

Arthur's mouth moved, but Eames was beyond parsing the words. He watched, with deceptive calm as Arthur stepped closer, reaching for Eames hands which had somehow become bright red and slick. 

The moment he was in range, Eames lunged for him, unsure if he wanted to kill Arthur or fuck him or both. 

The omega took a quick step back, a flash of fear in his eyes. The sight of it, and the surprise — Arthur was one of the bravest men he knew — brought Eames back to himself a little. 

He closed his eyes. "Run," he rasped.

But Arthur didn't. There was a click and Eames' hands were free. And he was on Arthur, grabbing, shoving him face-down upon the mattress. Arthur thrashed and Eames cuffed him for his insolence. A voice, tiny and distant in his mind screamed that Arthur should be made ready, but Eames shoving fingers found him already slick and made loose.

_The shower_ , he thought dimly, and shoved Arthur's leg up.

And as he sheathed himself in Arthur's warm body the last dregs of Eames' sanity washed away in the rut.

 

****

 

Eames never remembered much doing the worst it. Occasionally flashes of the animal LUST!RAGE!SEX!POSSESSION!ANGER!HUNGER would come back to him at inconvenient times: looking out the window while riding the train, hearing a distant laugh, or when he was about to tuck into a good meal. 

Those bits of memory would inevitably leave him melancholy and counting the days (dreading) until he had to be on watch for the next cycle.

Coming out of the rut was a slow surface out of a day-long nightmare. A rise to brief awareness to gulp in a breath of air before sinking under again.

... Pushing Arthur's lithe body against the headboard, hearing it slam again and again against the wall. Arthur panting in his ear....

... Arthur's eyes rolling up inside his head, mouth slack in ecstasy...

... The trembling body under his as he pushed in a final time, burying himself to the hilt, and swelled and swelled.... 

... and Eames wrapping a hand around Arthur's throat, feeling the rush of blood under his finger tips, and Arthur tried to suck in air, weakening fingers trying to pry Eames' away...

... Eames fucking into him, wet slaps, and the thighs he spread were sticky from cum leaking out....

... Arthur shaking his head, making tiny aborted sounds in the back of his throat as Eames reached around and jerked him off. He tried to get away, but they were knotted together and he wasn't going anywhere...

... "I can't again... I can't..." But then Arthur was coming anyway, clenching helplessly around Eames, dry sobbing...

... His hard cock slotted in between Arthur's thighs, dropping kisses on his sharp shoulders as he worked himself in deeper...

... Arthur's scrabbling fingers, a nail torn to the quick. Bleeding...

... There was something wrong, though Eames couldn't say why. It was enough to still himself for a moment and pull back, taking himself in hand instead. A few pulls and he was coming, making a mess of Arthur's stomach.

Arthur made a small sound of surprise, and with the hand not around his engorging knot, Eames pulled him against his chest. This omega was his and he needed to stay next to Eames so he could protect him, fuck him as he needed. 

The mid-afternoon sun lit strange red streaks on the omega's shoulders. Eames tucked his head against it, feeling the next wave of lust start its slow build again, tingling under his skin. He was still painfully hard and he was so, so tired...

 

****

 

Eames didn't wake so much as he snapped back to himself. He found he was wrapped around Arthur so tightly he wasn't sure if he had been trying to hold him, or crush him. Slowly, he made himself relax muscle by muscle, peeling away from Arthur, and stared.

Arthur was asleep, or possibly unconscious. The skin around his left eye was dark and puffed up, his bottom lip split with a dried line of blood running down his chin. More streaks of blood, some black with age decorated his body. And there was a ring of what looked to be finger shaped bruises around his throat.

"Arthur." Eames' voice came out rusty with disuse. There was no reaction. Eames felt for a pulse, his heart in his throat, and exhaled sharply in relief when he found it strong and steady. 

Then Eames' noticed that his own wrists were a mess. It looked as if he'd rubbed himself raw on the restrains Arthur had tried to use at first. The clotted blood was dark with age, but the cuts had obviously had not been deep, else Eames would have bled to death long before.

He had little care for his own sake, only found himself clinging onto Arthur again. It must have been the fading effects of the hormones that made tears prick behind his eyes. Eames knew he was not a good man. He had lied, cheated, and stole throughout most of his adult life, but he had never done this before. Never... brutalized someone.

He was a mess, physically and emotionally. Arthur would surely be worse, after what Eames had done to him. 

Eventually Arthur did stir, making tiny aborted movements as if to push him away. His eyes slit open and in them Eames saw hazy wariness. 

Arthur's voice sounded like it was chewed through gravel. "G'back to sleep..."

Eames' chest constricted. "Is there anything... What do you need?"

He grumbled something, his head rolling limply back, but Eames thought he heard "Water".

And now he was becoming more aware of his surroundings. Everything until this point had been in narrow focus upon Arthur. Eames glanced around and realized for the first time he was not in a hotel room. This bedroom was too personalized. He was in a home. Arthur's home?

There was an extended wall jutting out from the corner, and Eames guessed it led to a bathroom. He vaguely remembered something about a shower.

"Right," he said, and cradling Arthur under his knees and shoulders, lifted him. Arthur gave a start of surprise, cursing and kicking out, but he felt light as a feather to Eames. Enough so he could bend down and snag a coffee-cup that was on Arthur's bedside table as he passed. 

Arthur didn't voice a further complaint, which was unlike him. He was utterly passive, too, when Eames filled the cup from the bathroom sink and brought it to his lips. 

He did jerk in surprise when Eames maneuvered them both into the large, tiled shower and turned on the water. 

"Warmer," he croaked and stood trembling against Eames, barely able to stand on his own as Eames soaped them both down. 

Eames tried not to look too hard at the mass of black and blue that covered the inside of Arthur's thighs and his ass. His lean back was a terrible sight too, topped by a set of teeth marks along his right shoulder, still crusty with blood. Eames rinsed it the best he could. 

"Head back," he ordered, squirting a generous dollop of shampoo into his hand. He worked it through Arthur's dark hair, the woodsy scent of it familiar and aching at the same time.

That and the sight of the water licking down Arthur's bruised, olive skin sent a bolt of lust into his groin. Eames swallowed and felt himself hardening again. He couldn't draw away, even though he knew it was wrong. The rut wasn't done with him yet.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, reaching down to palm himself. Arthur groaned, his arms around Eames' neck to hold himself up. Eames kissed his nape, the unbruised portions of his throat, and tried to be as gentle as he could as he rubbed himself off on Arthur. Judging by his grimaces, he wasn't entirely successful. 

Orgasm brought more clarity to his mind and he made short work of washing them again, toweling them down and then treating his cuts and Arthur's bite with hydrogen peroxide he found under the sink. There were bandages in a first-aid kit nearby.

He made Arthur drink another two cups of water, and then one himself even though he wasn't thirsty. 

His wrists were beginning to sting and the fact that Arthur felt more substantial when Eames carried him to the living room was an indication that the rut was almost over. His unnatural strength was leaving him. Soon he'd be even more helpless from exhaustion than Arthur. 

"Should I leave?" Eames asked as he set Arthur down on his couch and covered him with a quilt he found there.

Arthur nodded once and rolled over, eyes slipping shut.

Of course he would want to be alone, after what Eames had done to him.

The urge to wrap himself around Arthur was still there, but Eames was stronger than the rut now. Besides, the only one Arthur needed protecting was from himself. He dragged himself upright on shaky legs, pulled on the remains on his clothing, and quietly left.

 

****

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a work of erotic fiction set in an AU world featuring characters who have no training in how to deal with the aftermath of sexual violence. Also, there will be blatant healing cock later on.
> 
> Thanks to Asya Ana for betaing, bouncing off ideas, and suggesting some GREAT ones in turn. :D

 

 

Seven months later

 

* * *

 

 

Eames knew he was in trouble when he found himself stalking a beautiful omega woman through the lower-street fruit market.

He sidled up to her, admiring the dark curve of her neck as she bent to place mangos in a basket. The two-year-old on her hip stared at Eames with large brown eyes as it stuffed a tiny fist in its mouth. It would be an annoyance when he took its mother, though easily dealt with.

The hot air shifted, bringing the scent of baby powder. Something in that smell recalled an old memory from his childhood. Eames paused, blinked, then backed quietly away before the woman realized he had been hovering.

Half-jogging, half-walking through the narrow Mombasa streets, Eames stuffed his hands in his pockets and cast an eye at the sun to gauge the time. He was going into rut once more, though it wasn't wholly unexpected. He was nearly a month late.

But not unprepared. Never, _never_ again would he allow himself to be unprepared.

As a rule, Eames did not indulge in self-pity. Still, living with the knowledge of what he had done in his last cycle hadn't been easy. Regret and guilt were insidious emotions, interrupting his sleep, his life. He had gone back to art forgery, unwilling to risk a dip into his own turbulent subconscious. Perhaps it was for the best.

His nights were plagued with dreams in which he watched himself pin down and fuck a fighting, screaming Arthur... and not being able to do a thing to stop it.

For the first time in his life, Eames considered submitting himself for voluntary castration. It wasn't uncommon for alphas who didn't want or couldn't tolerate the pill. And it would mean an end to the ruts. He'd even made an appointment for a consultation, but ended up not showing.

In the end, he supposed he was a selfish creature.

He had kept in contact with Yusuf after the Fischer job. A competent chemist was a good contact to have, and even though Yusuf was richer than God with both his and Dom's share in his pocket, Eames knew he still fiddled with experiments. Somnacin wasn't the only compound he enjoyed tailoring.

Back in his flat, Eames was careful to triple-lock his front door. Then he added an extra padlock to the final clasp. He placed the key on the kitchen counter. Unless he broke through the windows and the bars over them, there would be little chance for him to get free. His dim, rutting mind wouldn't put together the concept of key and lock.

He had balked at the size of the syringe when Yusuf had sold him the mixture. But it would need to be enough to keep him down for 72 hours, binding to and blocking the hormones that were responsible for his madness. It was an off-market derivative of the pill most alphas took regularly to keep themselves from becoming a public menace. As long as he took the injection within 12 hours of starting his cycle, it should stave off the worst of it. If not, well. There were the locks.

Eames hoisted himself up on the bathroom counter, legs dangling as he tied his arm off with a length of rubber tubing. He wasn't shy about needles, but with something so new and untested and with the stakes so high... he was nervous enough to want to get it over with immediately.

The needle found vein, and he closed his eyes as he released the tie.

He had every intension of riding this out in his bedroom, with its barred windows and behind yet another layer of locks, but the compound took effect at once. Eames found himself slipping to the floor, the bathroom tile cool against his overheated skin.

It reminded him of the time in his youth when he had tried the pill. His head felt as though it were clogged with cotton. Only this time it was so much—

The syringe fell from his limp fingers. He stared at it for what might have been a minute, might have been an hour, feeling no need to pick it up.

The silence of nothing roared in his mind.

 

* * *

 

An hour. A day. An age passed before Eames looked up to see that there was a man in his bathroom with him. An omega, his senses told him, though that knowledge passed in and out of his mind without a stirring of interest.

The man knelt to Eames' level and spoke words that meant nothing. Then the man picked up the discarded syringe and vial and spoke again, sharper.

Presently, he left and returned with another man, a beta who shined a pen-light in Eames' eyes. More conversation, then Eames found himself lifted under an arm and led to his bedroom. His shirt was removed, followed by his shoes and belt.

Then Eames was alone again, but he was beyond caring.

 

* * *

 

 

Eames woke up with his head hurting and his mouth tasting like sand. There was a glass of tepid water on his nightstand. He downed half of it before he bothered to wonder how it had gotten there.

Then he had the good sense to look around.

The Sig he hid in the drawer was gone, as was the secondary he kept in the pocket of an old suit in the closet. They'd even taken the knife he kept in the small space between the headboard and mattress.

Eames rubbed a hand down his face, feeling at least three days worth of bristles. There were very few people he knew of who could do such a thorough job of finding all of his hidey-holes, and if his suspicions were correct, he didn't want to step outside his bedroom.

Luckily, the bathroom adjoined to his bedroom. He was able to stumble in and take a shower, clean himself up and brush his teeth. The bristles would have to wait. His razor was missing too, damn it all.

He stood clutching the sink and staring at his own bleary-eyed expression as he breathed and tried to calm his racing heart, because it wouldn't do to die like this.

He opened the door and there was Arthur sitting on his couch, clacking away at the netbook on his lap. Eames had no doubt that the other man knew he was there, but Arthur didn't look up, leaving Eames free to drink in the sight of him.

Seven months was more than enough for Arthur's face to fully heal. Gone were the blackening eye, split lip and bruised throat that had haunted Eames' dreams. He looked primly professional, a knife sheathed in a thousand dollar suit, and although Eames couldn't have gotten it up now if he'd tried.... Arthur looked lovely there, sitting among his things.

Eames cleared his throat. "Are you here to kill me?"

"No," Arthur replied, still not looking from his computer. "You were on your way to doing that yourself. Yusuf said he told you that the compound was untested. You should have been watched."

"Couldn't risk it." Eames knew better than to relax, though there was little he would be able to do if— _when_ Arthur chose to exact revenge on him. "If it didn't work—" He couldn't go on.

Sure enough, Arthur sighed and pushed the netbook away. His face, when he looked at Eames, was stony and utterly unreadable.

Three days without food (Though now that he thought hard, he did remember someone pressing a glass of water to his lips and making him drink. The memory made his stomach squirm.) were catching up with Eames. Arthur still may decide to gut him alive, or not, but either way Eames was going to have to sit down before he fell down. He picked the seat farthest from Arthur. The silence between them grew uncomfortable.

"Why are you here?" Eames asked at last.

"I have a job that needs a forger."

"Funny," Eames said with boldness he did not feel. "I would have thought you would have been happy to see the last of me."

"Eames," Arthur said. "Do you really think you're up for having this conversation right now?"

No.

Eames scrubbed his hand down his face again. His eyes fell to the front door, the broken locks. Maybe it was the lingering effect of the injection clouding his mind, but he finally made the connection. "What are you doing here?" he said, his voice sharper now. How could have Arthur taken this risk?

A small stain of red crept up Arthur's neck. "It's been seven months. I didn't know you were—ruts are supposed to occur every six months."

"I'm not exactly regular." A new surge of nausea cramped his empty stomach. If Yusuf's compound hadn't worked exactly as promised, he could have— Dear God...

Arthur graced him with a sour look. "You have two active hits on you that I know about from some very powerful people. Yet I was able to break into your home and found you completely helpless in your bathroom."

 _Perhaps I wasn't up to raping someone this go around_ , Eames thought. His throat felt alarmingly thick, as if his guilt were a physical thing and had migrated up to strangle him. He shook his head, unanswering.

Arthur rose and slid a thick folder on the coffee table. "Details of the next job. It's one level with a fairly simple forge. I need to know in the next forty-eight hours if you're on board." He paused, and Eames saw him hesitate, like he wanted to say more.

"Why are you here?" Eames repeated.

"Because, I—" Arthur cut himself off with a shake of his head and jerked his chin at the folder. "Forty-eight hours, Mr. Eames. Be there."

 

* * *

 

 

He was.

Eames couldn't explain why he took Arthur up on the job. He didn't need the money; he certainly didn't need to be reminded of what he could never have. Only, it was Arthur who had asked. And he couldn't say no.

He had been a thief well before he had been a dream forger, and an actor before he'd been a thief. It was easy to stride into the warehouse on that first day, relaxed as if he'd been on extended holiday, or hiding from blokes to whom he'd owed money. Honestly, the rumors took care of themselves and Eames didn't take pains to contradict them.

He flirted because it was expected. _Dream a little bigger, darling._

Even if he couldn't quite look Arthur in the eye anymore.

For Arthur's part, he was as prim and meticulous as always. And if he held himself a little more tense than usual, his suits buttoned to the wrists and throat—well. Eames was certain he was the only one who noticed.

Their team was an experienced one. Aside from Eames and Arthur, their extractor was a pretty little female alpha named Soon-yi. Like male omegas, female alphas were unusual, but not rare. Their ruts were as devastating as those of any male.

The other two, the chemist and architect, were betas. The architect was an idiot and therefore beneath Eames' notice, but the chemist was an old man named Sven. He was missing an eye and told a different story every time Eames asked about its loss.

This job was to root out treachery within a CEO's boardroom, with up to twelve individual extractions. The planning took up the majority of Eames' time and energy, for which he was grateful.

Three tense weeks in, Eames looked up from studying surveillance videos from his desk to see that Arthur stood nearby with his back to him, doing routine maintenance on the PASIV. The others had stepped out some time ago. They were alone in the warehouse.

Eames allowed himself to take in the length of him, his eyes trailing up Arthur's back, over his perfectly pressed sweater-vest and down the skinny cut of his trousers. He should leave, but their unfinished conversation back in Mombasa still ate at him.

And, more importantly, Eames _needed_... he wasn't sure.

Rising from his desk, Eames made certain to scuff his shoes as he walked over.

Arthur didn't react when Eames reached out to touch him, though his long fingers stilled on the machine.

"May I?" Eames asked. Arthur said nothing as he pulled the collar of Arthur's sweater to the side, revealing his shoulder. The bite mark Eames had given him showed in a vivid purple scar against his skin. Two jagged crescents. It was just as bad as Eames had feared. He wasn't sure why he had allowed himself to look.

He dropped his hand, and in a flash Arthur turned to grab his wrist.

"Darling, what—"

"In case you get stupid ideas," Arthur said, working on the band of Eames' watch. He unclasped it and pushed it aside. "I'm not the victim here."

Under it were white scars, just as fresh as Arthur's. Eames' left wrist had been more savaged than his right by the cuffs that were meant to keep him restrained to the bed. Arthur looked at the jagged white line, something like an angry sneer on his face.

Eames stared at their joined hands. "You can't mean to say—Arthur. I hurt you."

"Physically, yes," Arthur agreed, his expression going tight and stony. A mask being put into place. "Eames, I'm not saying it didn't get... intense."

"I choked you—"

"And I came harder than I had in my life, and more times than I thought was possible."

"...What?" Eames asked, stunned.

With his free hand, Arthur reached out as if to touch Eames' face, cup under his jaw. Eames flinched away before he could stop, and Arthur nodded once as if that proved a point.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said.

He shook his head, fists clenching. "It's nothing."

"No," Arthur said and then took a deep breath as if bracing himself. "I'm apologizing for before. I put the job before your wellbeing. I used the fact that you were rutting to manipulate your choices. Then I ignored you when you told me to leave." Eames stared at him, wondering if he was insane. Arthur shrugged and dropped his gaze. "Out of the two of us, who was capable of thinking clearly? Of reading the warning signs and getting you somewhere safe and controlled?"

"You needn't—Arthur, it's not like—"

"I hurt you," Arthur continued, over him. "At least as much as you hurt me. Only my bruises faded."

It was as if Arthur's words had hit a weak point in his armor he wasn't even aware he had. And to his absolute mortification, he felt tears prick behind his eyes. "Piss off," he snapped, jerking back from Arthur. "You think—For Gods sake, you didn't take advantage of me."

"Yes," Arthur said tightly, "I did."

"I'm not me when the rut takes control. You understand that, yes?"

"If it wasn't you, why are you torturing yourself?"

As Eames struggled to come up with an answer, he flashed to that moment in the elevator when he had still been himself enough to kiss Arthur the way he wanted — the way he had always wanted. Perhaps it was a ridiculous thing to fantasize about, but having tender sex had never been an option for him. Not really. Because he knew one day the rut would take over, and any trust or love built up would be destroyed.

Beyond the physical damage, he knew when he'd woke on that terrible morning after his rut that he'd killed anything that could have been meaningful between him and Arthur. It wasn't the first time it had happened, but it hurt—it hurt so much every single time.

If Arthur coped by existing in a state of denial, far be it from Eames to destroy that too.

So he said nothing, simply turned away and left. He pretended he didn't hear, after the door closed, Arthur's distant curse and something thrown against the wall. Hard.

 

* * *

 

Eames found he suddenly needed to do surveillance out of the warehouse for the weeks after that. He and Arthur avoided each other whenever possible. It was better that way. Safer, for all involved.

Striding back to the warehouse to retrieve a file on one warm late afternoon, he heard the murmur of voices, low and angry. It made the back of his neck prickle in warning.

He came around the corner to find that their extractor, Soon-yi, had backed Arthur up to the far wall. The female alpha had arms to either side of Arthur, caging him in.

"You aren't yourself," he heard Arthur say.

"How would you know?" Soon-yi asked, her own voice dark as midnight. But when she bent to sniff at his collar, she hesitated. Arthur tried to push her away, but she grabbed his hair, yanking his head back.

Then Eames was there, grabbing Soon-yi by her jacket and bodily hauling her away. "Don't touch him! Don't you bloody—"

She whipped around with unnatural speed, and even though she was a petite woman, her impending rut lent her strength. She slammed Eames back against a nearby table. He snarled and tried to rise—she was stronger, not heavier—but she dealt him an open-handed slap that had him seeing stars.

Then some of the light came back into her dark eyes.

"Eames," she said, still holding him down. "Shit. It's starting for me, isn't it?"

"Obviously," he bit out. There was a reason why alphas tended to kill one another in rut. He could feel the need for violence burn under his own skin in response to the pheromones her body was starting to pump out. Instinctive desire to chase her from his territory, or, better yet, dispatch her before she became more of a threat.

If she so much as _looked_ at Arthur again, he'd tear her limb from limb. Or try to.

He made himself look away from direct eye-to-eye contact. "Do you have the compound I gave you?" He had been quietly passing Yusuf's solution around to every alpha in the business.

"Yes." Her fingers tightened painfully. Then she abruptly drew away. "Apologize to Arthur for me."

It was an order rather that a request, but Eames let it pass. He waited until she had strode out before he got up, wincing and rubbing a hand over the side of his face. Where was Arthur? It was unusual for him to disappear like this or turn away from conflict.

Eames had just begun to hunted around the warehouse when he heard short, choppy breathing coming from the bathroom.

Opening the door, he found Arthur standing at the sink, his head bowed. Every line of him so tight he looked ready to snap.

"Alright, Arthur?" Eames asked.

Arthur started to nod his head, and in the mirror above the sink, Eames saw his eyes squeeze shut. He looked startlingly pale. Wan.

Eames knew he should leave, but Soon-yi could change her mind and return. Judgment was often the first thing to go, and omegas were desire incarnate to a rutting alpha.

Eames stepped forward, allowing the door to shut behind them and lock them in.

"How can you take it?" Arthur asked. His eyes met Eames in the reflection of the mirror.

"Sorry?"

Arthur licked his lips. "I had a feeling something was going to happen all day. I was—she's a beautiful woman. But when she touched me, when I realized she was going into her rut and she wanted me..." A shudder went up Arthur's body and he shut his eyes again, turning his head to the side.

Eames realized for the first time that the front of Arthur's trousers was tented rather obviously.

 _How can you take it?_ Arthur had asked.

Take what? The loss of control? Of self?

Eames felt his heart twist. "It helps that I'm barking mad when it happens. I don't remember much."

Arthur let out a sharp breath that could have almost have been a laugh. But the next one he took was hitched. His knuckles went white against the sink as his breathing deteriorated into short, choppy gasps. A sliver away from sobbing.

"Arthur, Arthur... darling..." Eames closed the distance between them. He knew Arthur was having an anxiety attack, and although the best course of action was not to smother him, he could no more stop himself from wrapping his arms around him than he could halt the tide from coming in.

To his surprise, Arthur leaned against him. "Eames. Just."

Eames froze. "No."

He grabbed Eames' hand to push it against his erection. "I know you don't want to. I'm sorry."

 _I won't do this to you again_ , Eames thought, but Arthur was nearly writhing against him for any bit of friction, his eyes squeezed tight as if in pain. Maybe he was.

It was wrong, all things considered.

It would be more cruel to deny him.

"Shhh," he said, tightening his grip around his waist to get a steadier hold. Hating himself for it. "Shhh, Arthur. I've got you." And when he undid the zip and pushed his hand under the waistband of the briefs, Arthur let out a sound that was nearly a sob.

Arthur was as hard as a rock, already pearling at the head. Eames stroked roughly, wishing to bring him relief as soon as possible.

He saw the muscles in Arthur's jaw clench and release as he nodded. Yet he seemed to calm, his movements becoming less desperate, more sinuous matched Eames' rhythm.

Eames found himself nosing the back of Arthur's right shoulder, where he'd so savagely bitten.

And suddenly, he remembered.

 

* * *

 

 

He remembered pressing down onto Arthur, _into_ him, his knot swelling to lock them together. The omega under him shivered and twitched through the aftershocks of his own orgasm. Through his heightened senses, Eames could smell Arthur's arousal, his body reacting in harmony with the rise and fall of Eames' own desires. As it ought.

Eames kissed the back of the omega's neck, briefly calm and satisfied. The quiet space between breedings.

This omega was beautiful. Strong, and intelligent. He broke so beautifully. He pleased Eames like no other. He would keep him.

"You're mine," he whispered, and felt Arthur go tense in surprise.

Eames sank his teeth into the slope of shoulder. The omega cried out, throwing an elbow back. But he couldn't knock Eames away when they were tied so, and Eames' weight was greater, his muscles stronger. Teeth locked, he shoved Arthur's face into the mattress and held him there, muffling his curses.

His blood tasted like the finest wine.

When the omega sagged, exhausted and beaten, Eames rolled them both to the side, a leg shoved up so he could comfortably stay within his body. He stroked Arthur back into hardness; pleasuring him as he cleaned the wound with his tongue to impress his scent into it. When it healed, every other alpha would know that this one was _his_.

 

* * *

 

 

The memory came back to Eames in a flash, and it was all he could do not to jerk violently away. Any arousal he had was thoroughly deflated.

Arthur made a strangled, desperate sound as his hips snapped into Eames' grip. "When she wanted me, I felt—I was so fucking guilty."

"What?" Eames asked, stunned. Fear or panic was what he'd expected. Surely, he wouldn't want to go through rut again. But guilt?

Arthur nodded, his still shut, his face screwing up. It was pain this time, Eames knew it. "Like I was... I was... fuck. Doing something I shouldn't. Cheating on you."

"Darling—"

"Just... Eames, please." Arthur's voice broke on the word and Arthur's free hand reached back to cover his right shoulder, fingers digging in deep into the scar. He came, gasping, rolling his hips in an orgasm that seemed to go on and on. Unnaturally long.

He slumped at the end of it and only Eames' steady arm around him kept him up.

"Christ, Eames," Arthur said. His body trembled and Eames didn't need to glance in the mirror to know there were tears on his face. Both of their faces. "What did you do to me?"

 

 


End file.
